Scars To Remember
by CelticQueen09
Summary: ***Collab with scarylolita.*** When the successful business tycoon Eric Cartman returns to South Park due to an emergency, he is shocked to run into the fragile shell of his childhood friend Kyle Broflovski, or what's left of him. Kyman.
1. Chapter 1

**Kyle's POV**

It's one game of musical fuck-chairs after another. I've had the cops at my door a few times, accusing me of turning tricks. That's not my kind of game. I like to fuck, but I don't care about money.

I spent my high school years being team-slut for the basketball team. Nothing has really changed since then except now I don't really leave the house.

Everyone kind of grew apart in high school. Those years are long gone. I'm twenty-six now. I should have my life together. I should be like Stanley Marsh, married to a nice girl living a white-picket-fence lifestyle. I should be the breadwinner of my parents' silent expectations. But no. Instead, I'm a shut-in who works at home and never leaves. I think everyone has forgotten about me apart from the people I fuck. Every night it's one adult sleepover after another. The pricks are always gone in the morning, thankfully. I sleep with a lot of eyesores. I don't want to wake up next to one.

I absentmindedly gather my thoughts as I see another e-mail pop up from my boss. I hate my job. I work for a big-wig phone company at home and while it pays well, it's so monotonous and dreary and there is absolutely no challenge in it. I also hate the assholes I sleep with. Sometimes I go a long, long time without sex. Other times I can't go a day. Even when I do fuck, it can be alright, if at that. Sex is always better in a relationship... But the idea of a "relationship" is a fucking joke. I can't even begin to remotely _like_ myself, let alone _love_ myself. How the fuck can I ever care for someone else?

Actually, there's only one thing that feels really good physically to me... but it's pretty fucked up.

I stretch my arms out in front of me, hoping to feel more awake. At least, awake enough to get through the day. As I do that, I feel my most recent mark itch. I roll up my left sleeve and scratched it, forceful enough to take care of the itch but careful enough to not peel the scab.

It amazes me how none of the assholes I fuck have said anything about my scars. I mean, maybe they're thinking it, but they don't have the balls to say anything. Of course, fucking in a completely pitch-black room helps, too. But I swear to God, every time I feel that sting after slicing myself, it feels much better than any pounding I've received (or given). It feels like a spiritual, out-of-body experience. It's also the only thing that feels right for someone like me. It's cathartic. When you hurt your body, it works overtime to release endorphins. They calm you down. They relax you. It feels fucking good. Then your body works to heal you. I guess this is your body's way of saying, "I love you." Too bad I can never say it in return, or even express a sentiment remotely similar. I guess this is self-hatred. Bad things feel good and good things feel bad. I tend to avoid anything that might be good for me. I get scared and the potential of someone treating me right is enough to chase me off. Jesus Christ, I sound like a mess. I guess I am a mess. An emotionally stifled mess. This is how I let it out. It comes out with my blood.

I haven't done much dating. I don't know what kind of guy I'd fall for. Probably an asshole I feel like I'd go catatonic if someone told me they loved me. I wouldn't be able to handle hearing that kind of confession.

"I love you."

Actually, it's been a long time since I've heard these words from anyone. Even my parents.

You see, they are always preoccupied with Ike. Despite the fact that he's 21 and his IQ is – and always has been – off the charts, my parents very much baby him. I mean, they basically have to do everything for him.

I was in my senior year of high school the first time Ike smoked pot. It was around midnight on a Tuesday night when he came in late after mom and dad had fallen asleep. I was just dicking around on my laptop with the TV on in the family room, just putting off going to bed. I could smell the weed as soon as he stepped in the house.

"Ike...?" I asked, while he immediately trudged towards the stairs.

"What, Kyle?" he said defensively. I saw how blood-shot his eyes were.

"Have you been smoking?" I asked, concerned.

"Why, are you gonna fucking narc?!" he yelled.

"Shh, mom and dad are asleep!" I said in a loud whisper.

He stood there, waiting for an answer.

I sighed. "No, Ike. I'm not going to narc. Just go to bed."

At first, I didn't really think much of it. I mean, fuck, everyone tries weed at some point in their life, right? But I started to worry when his behavior really started changing. He was withdrawing from his friends, skipping school… and there was one time he went on a road trip out of state by himself and decided not to tell anyone. I still remember how much both my parents cried and the sleepless that we all had. I remember comforting my mom after she came back from the police station to fill out a missing person report.

I also remember the first time Ike tried to commit suicide.

"Hey Ike, mom and dad aren't back yet from synagogue, you wanna play some basket–"

He had borrowed a friend's gun (supposedly for "hunting reasons") and he was standing in the middle of his room at 1:15 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon holding the hunting rifle to his heart. I immediately ran up to him, fought for the rifle and pulled it upward as he pulled the trigger.

Ike shot a hole in his ceiling as I aggressively yanked the rifle from him and threw it across the room. "FUCK YOU, KYLE!" he screamed as he pushed me, tears streaming down his face. "YOU FUCKING RUINED IT!" He screamed while breaking out in loud sobs.

I wrapped my arms around his thin frame tightly as we both sunk to the floor, me crying silent tears and Ike's body wracking with each immense sob.

It wasn't long after that day that my parents found all his prescription drugs. He started walking around like a zombie, not thinking or feeling much of anything. It was unsettling to watch. I don't know if it was the drugs making him feel normal or if it was the drugs keeping him that way.

It's funny, in a sad way. I tried so damn hard to protect him when we were kids. I tried to be the older brother keeping the younger brother safe. I guess I didn't do a good job, because something happened to him and now he's completely fucked up. He spent time with an older crowd and I guess that's how he got all the drugs. I don't want to think about what he did to get them. Ike has never had a job. He didn't have much money, either. He still doesn't, yet I have a feeling he's still not sober.

I don't see him much now. I don't see much of anyone these days. I almost prefer it. If I don't see them, then I don't have to think about them. If I don't have to think about them, I can pretend things aren't as bad as they really are. I guess it's immature, but it's all I really can do.

Sometimes I think I should stop and go visit him, but I never do. I can't bring myself to leave my apartment.

I don't stay home all the time out of fear. Rather, I don't leave my apartment because I have no reason to. Besides getting groceries and running basic errands, I just don't see any logical reason to do it. Most of my childhood friends have married up or moved away. Sometimes I check up on Stan, Cartman, and Butters on Facebook, and they all seem to be doing well. Stan is married and has a family with Wendy, Cartman is a linguist for some big-wig German company and is working downtown Denver, and Butters is an elementary school teacher, but in a nicer suburban town of Denver than South Park. Kenny is the only one who is still here, and he's working as a bartender. Actually, if I DO ever talk to anyone, it will be him. Kenny's tried to get me to hang out repeatedly, but I think lately he's just given up. I always come up with some lame excuse as to why I don't have "time".

The truth is I have more time than I need. So much time that it seems like I'm always "in my head", never concentrating on the task at hand. In fact, it takes me a minute to realize that I just got a text.

I never get texts. I pick up my phone and see that – speak of the devil – it's Kenny. I debate on ignoring him and just going about my day, but I'd probably feel guilty about it later on. He always makes an effort and I never do. So, I open the screen up and read what he has to say.

KENNY: Hey, dude. Have you heard the news?

ME: No.

KENNY: Guess who just croaked?

I frown at that and feel a knot in my stomach. Someone is dead?

ME: Who?

KENNY: Liane Cartman.

ME: How?

I feel kind of sad. When I was young, Liane was always nice to me. She was nice to most people. I think she was too nice and Cartman took advantage of it. I think a lot of people took advantage of it. She had a lot of issues. I guess that's common here in South Park. Shitty little whitebread towns like this are just cesspools of trash for the masses of fucked up people that live in them.

ME: Have you heard from Cartman?

KENNY: No, not yet.

ME: Shit, do you even have his number? I don't.

KENNY: No I don't either. I'm going to message him and see what I can find out.

ME: K. Lmk when you do

KENNY: Kk.

I breath out heavily and start thinking about him... About Fatass. Last I heard, he climbed up the corporate ladder at he worked his way up, just starting out as a bilingual customer service representative. Just looking at his pictures on Facebook, he seems so happy, so driven. How the hell is he going to deal with losing the only person in his life that ever mattered to him? Who the hell knows? Maybe he won't care. Cartman is like that. He killed his own father, after all. He's not emotionally stable... but I guess I can't really talk because I'm not either. I swear, this town is cursed. Everyone running around here is so unbelievably fucked up.

I set my phone aside and start pacing. I don't want to think about that fat shit, but I can't help but feel bad for him now. I don't know how I'd feel if I lost a family member. It almost happened... Almost. I don't know what I would have done if Ike was successful. I don't know where'd I'd be right now. I know I'd be a hell of a lot more miserable than I already am and I guess that's saying quite a lot.

What will I say to him? "I'm sorry for your loss." That's so generic, so vague. And yet, I can't think of anything better to say to him. Will he be sad? Will he be upset? Knowing Cartman, he'll hide his emotions and act like it's not a big deal. Maybe he'll isolate himself like I have been doing recently, too. Actually, I really don't know Cartman. It has been years since I ran into him... At least 3 years. That's enough time for anyone to change. Maybe working in corporate America has made him more of an asshole, or maybe he actually matured and isn't the same, selfish kid that I knew growing up. Why am I pacing back and forth? Am I actually nervous to see him? I guess I would be if it were Stan or Butters, too. No... That's not true. The truth is, all these years Cartman and I have had a real connection. A weird and fucked-up connection, yes, but it's it has always been a strong connection regardless. In a lot of ways, he has always been smarter and more insightful than Stan, and- especially when I didn't want him to- He always knew what I was thinking or feeling. But I really don't want him to know what I'm thinking or feeling now.

When I first went to college, Ike was in and out of rehab and I was cutting myself every day. Cartman and I both went to South Park University. He graduated in four years, while I took my sweet time, took some semesters off, changed my major, etc. I finally graduated last year.

One day, we were both walking back to the parking deck together when finals had just ended in the beginning of May.

"'Sup, Jew?"

"Hey Fatass."

"What final did you just take?"

"Anthropology. You?"

"Ohh, Calc 2. Pretty sure I aced it," he said, in a cocky tone.

"Whatever," I replied, trying to hurry up and get to my car. I intentionally walked faster, to get ahead of him. I sighed a breath of relief when I found my car.

"Ay! Slow down, Kike!"

I dropped my backpack to the ground and turned around. "What, Cartman?" There was obvious irritation dripping in my tone.

The fatass walked closer, then he stopped about a foot away directly in front of me. "Why are you wearing a fucking sweater, Jew?"

I raised an eyebrow. "What the fuck...?"

"It's 75 degrees today and the sun is out. Come to think of it, I never see you wearing anything with short-sleeves anymore..."

My heart started beating fast and I fished for my keys in my pocket and then walked over to the driver's side. "I get cold a lot," I explained as I hurriedly threw my backpack in the back seat.

Fatass walked up and stood right in front of the back door of my car immediately after I shut it.  
>"What's really going on, Kahl?" he asked in a plain tone. "You're not the same Jew I used to know."<p>

"I'm fine Cartman, really," I said. I half-assed a reassuring smile (and I could tell by Cartman's facial expression that he wasn't too convinced). "I got a lot of stuff to do… I'll see yah later," and then I got in the car and turned the ignition on.

I suppose it's bad to lie to your friends, but what the fuck was I supposed to say? I've been forced to keep too many family secrets and now I'm keeping my own secrets.

It's funny. Out of all the things I could have gotten addicted to… drugs, alcohol, gambling… I ended up getting addicted to cutting myself. In a way, it's even more fucked up than any other addiction. Maybe I'm addicted to sex, too. Sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I feel like I need it, but it's not necessarily because I'm horny. Sometimes it's just so I know I'm here… if that makes any sense. It's like I need someone's hands on me to remind me that I'm a real person. Whether or not they're gentle doesn't matter. It's a sensation. It tells me that I'm alive and all that shit. I guess the blood is proof, too. I'm alive, but I'm not quite living. It's easier this way. I don't want to go outside. I don't want to meet people. I don't want to make new friends. I don't want to grow attached to anyone. All of that only leads to disappointment. I don't care how jaded I sound. People have done nothing but disappoint me. No exceptions. I doubt that will change. I don't know if I even want it to change.

Part of me is comfortable with the mundane and ugly life I have. Blood and fucking. I guess it's all I need.


	2. Chapter 2

**Eric's POV**

I fucking hate this town.

I'm driving and I pass the old elementary school and I pass Stark's Park. I hate it. I hate it all. The small town mentality, the small town perimeters, I guess I just hate that it's a small town.

Once you get used to life in the city, you realize just how shitty you had it growing up.  
>But I never hated making the commute and driving back to this shitty little town whenever I had some time off. But back then, that was because it was only to see... Her.<p>

I feel something getting caught in my throat. I swallow and try to shove both- the choking sensation in my throat as well as the rush of self-pity in my heart- out of the way. I'm here to take care of business, and besides they'll be plenty of time to cry later. But hopefully no one will see me when I cry.

Growing up, I didn't give a flying fuck who saw me when I cried like a little bitch. It's funny what a little bit of education, prestige, money, and time will do to a person. I guess it's a thing called "pride."

I never did really keep in touch with my childhood friends. And I don't really have any "friends" that I hang out with now. I've had some intense but short-lived relationships... None were long enough to really mean anything. But more importantly, none of them were long enough where I got the chance to bring home a girlfriend to my mom. I really, really, really fucking wanted to do that. Not so much to show off what a catch I had on my arm, but more so to make my mom happy. While she didn't pressure me, she did mention a couple times how, if I ever meet someone special, she would like to meet her.

But the fucking truth is, there weren't just "hers". There were some "hims", too.

Now, I'm not fucking gay. Yeah, I've fucked some guys, but I've never dated one. But whenever a new thing with a girl didn't work out I always went back to fucking guys. To be honest, this shit kinda bothered me. It was something that no one knew about me. And at least my mom can rest not knowing that I've both been the pitcher and the catcher with random dudes.

There's a secret I'll probably take to the grave. People don't need to know that shit about me, especially not people in this ass-crack of a town. I don't want to get my jumped or get fag-dragged around these dusty, dirt roads. I hear that still do that kind of shit in pissant towns like this and I'm not looking to get road rash on every square inch of me.

God, I don't want to be here. I hate it here. I hate all the crusty, crazy, uneducated, gun-toting, bible belt hicks.

It sucks that I have to be here and the reason for it makes everything even shittier. When I finally arrive at my destination, I park and make my way into the building. It's white. Everything is white. It smells sterile. I approach the front desk and a minute later I'm taken into a back room by a guy in a white coat. It looks like something straight out of a horror film – walls of cold chambers. We stop in front of one and the doctor opens it up, pulling a body out on the silver tray. It's covered by a blanket, but I'm already prepared for what I'm about to see. When the doctor pulls back the fabric, there are no surprises.

"Yeah, that's her," I say, forcing myself to keep calm and collected.

The doctor nods. "Would you like me to give you a minute?"

"Doesn't matter," I mutter. The doctor takes that as a yes and leaves me alone in the room with the body. With a frown, I stare down at the corpse. It doesn't even look like her. It's so… lifeless. "Hey, Mom," I murmur, letting out a sigh.

I just stare at her. It's creepy, she almost seems alive. I breath a sigh of relief. The hospital did a decent job of cleaning her up; from the details I was given about the accident, she was almost discombobulated. Now looking at her, it's hard to believe that all that took place. Yes, she has a ton of stitches along her arms, and one on her forehead. She has some swelling along with bruising. But, despite all that, she looks peaceful, like she's only sleeping.

Before I know it, old memories worm their way into my mind.

"MYYYUUUMMM!" I yelled, running up along her bedside. I was still fat and short, and my forehead barely made it over the bed. "MYUUUUMMM! I'm hungry!" I yelled in my high-pitch voice. I observed as my mom laid there for a minute before my voice pulled her out of consciousness. Back then I couldn't see it, but she really was a beautiful woman. The thick, brown hair, her cute turned up nose, her dimples... And how patient she was with a little shit like me made her even more beautiful.

"Mmmm," she moaned, blinking her eyes. "What is it, poopsikins? Mommy is trying to take a nap," she said sweetly.

"I'm fucking HUNGRY, myum!" I pouted as I slammed my two chubby fists up against the bed.

I watched mom yawned. "Okay sweetie," she said, slowly propping herself up. "What would you like for dinner?" she asked as she maneuvered her legs to the side of the bed.

"I want fucking KFC, myum!" I spatted. "Not any of that shit you tried to cook for me the other night! That shit was GROSS!"

Mom stretched her arms again as she reach for her cellphone on the in table. "Okay sweetie," she purred. "Just give mommy and KFC about 20 minutes, okay?"

I blink while staring at my mom's deceased body, wondering why that random memory just popped into my head. Fuck, I was such a little shit back then that did not deserve someone like her as a mom. I feel my eyes start to water and I quickly wipe my eyes with the back of my hands.

I walk to the door and stick my head outside the room.

"You finished?" the doctor asks me.

I scoff. What kinda lame-ass question is that? "Yeah," is all I say.

I can't shake the feeling that I should have spent more time with her. Even as a kid I couldn't wait to get away from her. I guess I took it all for granted and now it's too late.

I sign some papers and then make funeral arrangements. It's going to be small. I don't know if my mother even had any friends. I think that's why she was so permissive to me when I was a kid. She was looking for a friend. It's so fucking depressing I want to throw up. I should have been there for her. She shouldn't have died like this. She was doing better. She was sober. She had a straight-laced job.

I guess it doesn't matter, though. Like I said, it's too late.

.

.

After a really shitty day, I return to the apartment I'm renting out. I don't know how long I'll be in this shit-stain of a town. Either way, I can take my work with me. When I arrive "home" I open up my laptop and spend the rest of the night responding to emails from some of my moronic co-workers.

Shit, shit and more shit. I feel myself grow angry for no apparent reason, so I slam my laptop shut and then it's quiet. For a split second, at least.

"_Oh, fuck_!" I hear, followed by a string of moans and demands for "more" and "harder".

I click my tongue. Apparently my next door neighbor is scoring.

I pay it little mind, moving into the kitchen and deciding to pour myself a glass of wine. I'm not a big drinker, but I like to have a glass of wine every so often - especially when I'm stressed out.

Unfortunately, the annoying sex sounds are only louder in the kitchen.

"Oh, God! _YESS_!" What the fuck? Sounds like a dude doing most of the moaning! The girl must be riding his dick hard.

I chug the last bit of wine and then rinse it out in the sink. "Ay!" I yell as I hit the wall with the side of my fist. "Shut the fuck up! I'll call the cops!"

Then I hear the moans louder and the sound of the bed move faster.

Mother fucker! I'm not going to be able to get to sleep tonight after a fucked up day because of this selfish, horny couple?! I quickly grab my cellphone and my keys, slam my door, and knock on my neighbors' door. I don't pummel the door but I knock loud enough that they can hear it over the sex. Then, finally, the noise stops. I hear some low-toned conversation and then some shuffling.

When the door becomes ajar, I don't even wait to see who it is before I go off.

"For Christ's sake, can you keep your fucking DOWN?!" Then the door opens all the way. I stare at a guy in a dark green terry cloth robe with messy, curly red hair. Despite his comical hair and the multiple freckles he has on his face, he stares at me with an "eat-shit" expression.

Wait... Don't I know this asshole?

"Kahl?" I ask in a deadpan, nearly squinting at him.

And he actually has the audacity to smirk at me. "Eric Cartman," he says in a simper. "In the flesh. Someone pinch me."

He's changed. Right away I notice it. Sure, the hair is the same and the freckles are the same... He's _almost_ as tall as me now, but certainly not as broad. Apart from that, there's something different in the way he carries himself. There's something catty and malicious about his tone. I guess a few years apart were bound to change him in some ways. He looks like a depressed soccer mom and the robe definitely isn't helping to negate that image.

Before I can respond, a guy - presumably the guy who was pounding Kyle - shoves past us and walks down the hall. He's big and burly and kind of homely. Huh. I guess the Jew's a fag... clearly a fag with no fucking standards. I sneer at him and snap, "Watch it, asshole!" only to be ignored.

With a careless sigh, Kyle makes a move to close the door but I stop him. "Kahl, what the _fuck_?" I demand, though perhaps I have no right. What am I even demanding? It's always been like this between us. Complicated. Who the fuck knows why?

He fucking reeks of sex. It makes me want to recoil and move away, but I don't.

He pauses and stares at me. "Sorry about your mom," he says and it sounds genuine.

With a sigh, I nod my head. "You heard about that?"

"Everyone did," Kyle responds, finally letting go of the door. For an awkward second, we stand there, looking at each other. "You, uhh, wanna come in?" The Jew asks me.

His sudden change of tone makes me feel uneasy. "Well, I wouldn't want to interrupt anything, Kahl." I try to make my new tone not sound awkward.

The redhead scratches his head. "It's a little too late for that, Fatass," he snarks, looking at me with a sarcastic expression. "C'mon. I'm sure I can find something His Majesty might accept as a beverage." He nudges the door open as I walk past him and into his family room. Just like my apartment, it's small and modest, but it's fine for a bachelor, I guess. I notice that there's a ton of artwork and that the Jew really has a taste for vintage and ornate decor. I would never fucking say it, but I'm almost impressed. I sit down on a leather chair next to his couch. After the redhead locks the door, he stalks over to the kitchen and opens the fridge. "Let's see... I've got coke, orange juice, milk... Oh, and I've got some Coronas and Blue Moon, if you drink."

"I'll take a Blue Moon," I answer, thinking that I really could use a drink after all the shit today.

I hear him pull out two Blue Moons, open both of them, and then carry then over and he hands me mine. The Kike sits adjacent from me on the couch.

"Thanks for the drink," I say, after taking a swig.

"It's no big deal." Kyle takes a swig right after me.

"Look, I didn't mean to be a total dick earlier," I explain. "It's just that today is my first day back in South Park, and I had to drive straight to Hell's Pass to-"

"'S'fine," The Jew interrupts me. "I'm usually not that loud, but I'll try to keep it down next time."

Next time? Was that ugly asshole...? "You mean, that ugly asshole is your boyfriend?!" I can't help but let my disapproval show both in my tone and in my facial expression.

"No douche-wad," He replies nonchalantly. "That guy is just some guy I fuck... Sometimes."

'Just some guy I fuck'...? Am I really hearing this? Kyle Broflovski, the Jewish, holier-than-thou, know-it-all, little shit-stain, pious, pain-in-the-ass goodie-goodie that I grew up with- did those words really just come out of his mouth?

"Oh," is all I can manage to say. "What's his name?"

Kyle scrunches up his face, thinking hard. "Travis, I think? Yeah I think it's Travis."

I couldn't help but notice the awkward silence in the living room.

"No, it's Trevor! Yeah, Trevor! My bad," he says, chuckling a bit. "Travis is someone else."

Someone else? Jesus fucking Christ, this guy...

"Well, I guess everyone has to have random hook-ups every now and then," I say, trying to make the situation a little less weird.

"Or every night," Kyle boldly chimes in.

"Every night?"

"Well, maybe I'm exaggerating," he says. "Sometimes I can go a week- hell, maybe even two weeks- without sex."

I don't know why, but my heart feels like it's sinking the more I talk to the Jew. This is NOT what I would've ever imagined Kyle to be like as an adult.

"So... there's... others...?" I ask, dragging out the words.

"Of course there's others, Fatass!" he snaps. "God, I don't even know why I'm telling you all this and we haven't seen each other in years. I guess because you caught me fucking, so it's only fair to explain the situation."

"Christ," I mutter, somewhat angry and somewhat disgusting - though I shouldn't be. What right do I have? The damn Jew is allowed to screw up his life if that's what he wants.

He softens a split second later, taking a long swig and finishing his drink. "Be right back," he says. He's gone for a brief moment and when he returns he has another bottle.

"Christ," I mutter again.

He just smiles. "What?" he asks me. "Surprised? Don't bother denying it. I can read it on your face. Who would have thought Kyle Broflovski would be the one to end up a slut with no standards? I might seem like I've gotten dull, but I'm a crazy lay. At least, that's what my fucks tell me. Shame, right? At one point in my life, I probably had a lot going for me... Now all I have is this."

I try not to look too disgruntled. "You were the smartest kid in our grade."

"Yeah," he whispers. "Things change."

"So, uh, what do you do?" I pry. "Job-wise, I mean?"

"I work from home," he says vaguely before explaining, "I work for a phone company."

"Mundane," I tell him.

"Pretty much," he agrees.

It doesn't take the Jew long to down his second drink. I can't help but wonder if he's already drunk. Maybe he started drinking earlier. I wouldn't blame him. The only way I'd be able to fuck around with an eyesore like "Trevor" is if I was fucking wrecked. I prefer cute faces. I stare at Kyle. I suppose it's not surprising that he gets fucked by a lot of guys. He's not that bad looking. He has ridiculous hair, but his face is all right. Still, I can't picture him without the stupid hair. It suits him.

He must drink a lot and by the looks of it, he drinks fast. He looks hazy. He rubs the back of his hand over his forehead before taking another swig and then another and then another. I feel like I'm sitting here watching a the moments before train wreck - I know it's about to happen but there's nothing much I can do to stop it.

"You work tomorrow?" I ask, trying to make casual conversation (which is not really what i'm used to).

"Yeeep," he answers with a bitter tone. "What about you?" The Jew must see my pissed-off expression because he's quick to correct himself. "Ohh, that's right. You're here in town because... I'm sorry, my bad." His face is red, and I can't tell if that's from his embarrassment or his drinking. Before I get the chance to make a harsh anti-Semitic remark, the redhead throws another question at me. "So what DO you do?"

"What do I DO, Jew?" I spit back sarcastically.

"Ya know, work, for your career, job-wise?" he explains facetiously. "Your degree was international business, right?"

"No kike," I snap. "It was German with a business concentration."

"Ohhh, that's right!" He takes another long drink of his beer. Then- for whatever reason- he begins to chuckle.

"What's so funny, Jew?" I feel blood pressure rising.

"Ohh nothing, just thought of something funny." Kyle takes another long swig.

"What's so funny, KAHL?" I press.

"Umm, it's just-" He coughs for a second, trying to drink successfully and laugh at the same time. "You must be a very cunning linguist, aren't cha Cartman?"

I stand up, move in front of the Kike, snatch his beer, and slam it down on the coffee table- strong enough where it made a loud noise and spilled a bit but gentile enough where it doesn't shatter. I grab the two sides of his terry cloth robe, and bring his face close to mine. Surprisingly, he is light. That or I'm just so goddamn pissed off that I can't feel anything but adrenaline running through my veins.

"I don't know if you're drunk or not right now Kahl," I say in a low, raspy voice. "But I just drove 45 minutes from my apartment in downtown Denver as soon as I heard about my mom getting T-boned by some piece-of-shit drunk driver," I pause, making sure that he is listening. Although just minutes before he was closing his eyes a lot, now they are wide open in fear. Up-close, the Jew smells like a fucking brewery.

"I know you Jews don't ever think about anyone than your beady-eyed selves, so I KNOW that it would be too much to ask you to be respectful of the situation." My voice is getting a little louder and I perfectly articulate every word. "But never in a million YEARS would I guess that perfect, little Kyle Broflovski would turn into such a low-life, shit-stain!" I let go of his robe and he falls back on the couch, silent.

He's disheveled. His robe slips past his shoulder and he doesn't make a move to fix himself. He look stunned. At what? I don't know. It's not like this is anything new for us.

"I'm not," he says finally. It's a weak protest, like he's just saying it because he knows he should... but he probably knows I'm right.

"You're not what?" I snort. "A low-life shit-stain?"

He frowns at me, eyes narrowing. "Stop," he whispers sharply.

I dismiss it. Instead, I nod towards his robe. "Gonna fix that?"

"Why does it matter?" he asks nonchalantly. "It's not like there's any part of me you haven't seen before. I can't recall the amount of times I've caught you at my window watching me undress."

"We were kids," I remind him. "We're grown-ass men now."

He waves a dismissive hand and when I think he's about to adjust his robe, he does something else instead. He pulls back more of the fabric. He does it in a slow, teasing way.

"Stop," I demand tersely, yet I can't look away.

"Why?" he asks me. He stands up and reaches for the tie, undoing it with ease and then sliding out of the robe. The fabric pools at his feet and he's standing in front of me without a stitch of clothing on. I almost choke, clasping a hand over my mouth.

Kyle Broflovski is fucking batshit. The evidence is written all over his skin.

"What the FUCK is wrong with your arms and legs?!" I exclaim.

Kyle has so many cuts and scars... up and down his forearms and inside the calves of his legs. There's some old, silvery looking scars along with fresher, pinker ones. There's some scabs healing and some that you can tell the Jew has been scratching. While most of the lacerations are in the same direction, I can tell that he's made some diagonal and- because of just how many are covering his limbs- many of his lines overlap each other. I feel sad and repulsed at the same time. Sure, I've heard of self-mutilation, but I always thought that was something that girls or emo, suicidal fags do. Not people who come from good families. Not people with a high IQ. Not people who have so much strength and stubbornness... At least, that's the way Kyle USED to be. Does he really fucking hate himself this much?

"Oh, these?" he says with a shrug. "Sorry. They can kinda be an eyesore, but that doesn't change what a good fuck I am," the Kike adds as he takes a step closer to me. He leans in and tries to kiss me.

"Kahl?!" I say as I take a step back, panicking because I'm not really sure if I understand what the fuck is going on right now.

The Jew blinks in shock. I clear my throat and I put both of my hands up in front of me, as if shielding myself from any more advances.

"Kahl," I say, I little louder and with more control. "I need to go to bed. You should probably do the same, Jew." I feel my pockets and make sure that I still have my cell phone and keys on me, then I head for the door.

"Asshole," I hear him mutter.

I turn around and raise an eyebrow at him. "You're drunk. _Really_ drunk. I'm not gonna fuck you like that, stupid Jew bitch. Stop whining. Put your house coat back on and go to bed."

He's staring down at the floor, visibly dejected. Maybe he's not used to being rejected, but I don't give a shit.

"Kahl?" I say his name for what feels like the billionth time.

He doesn't answer. He sinks to the floor, kneeling. I watch, hoping he doesn't throw a tantrum. He was good at that when we were kids. He fucked up his vocal cords and now his voice is permanently hoarse.

With an impatient sigh, I move back into the room. I pick up his robe, draping it over his shoulders.

"Come on," I urge him. "Fucking stand up and stop acting like a child."

He won't look at me. He just continues staring at the floor. Fucking hell, I hope he's not crying. I don't want to have to deal with that flavor of bullshit tonight.

"Fuck's sake," I whisper to myself, grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing him to stand. He knocks my hands away and finally looks up at me. No tears.

"Good now?" I ask him.

He forces a laugh and says, "Yeah, whatever. Goodnight."

I watch as he goes to his room and slams the door, leaving me in his living room.

What a hot fucking mess.


	3. Chapter 3

**Kyle's POV**

Fuck. _Fuck_!

Why did I do that? Why did I have to come onto him like that? I'm not even interested in him... I just wanted to get one over on him. I thought it'd be like a funny joke if I actually got him to fuck me. Jokes on me, though, 'cause he was far from interested.

I hold my head in my hands and try not to think about last night's complete and utter humiliation. I'm not used to being rejected. I can't recall ever being rejected like that in my life. God, I feel like I'll never recover. I don't even want to get out of bed now. I run my fingers through my hair before knotting them in the curly strands and pulling.

He didn't want me. Former fat, short, sadistic piece of shit Eric Cartman didn't want to fuck me. He was disgusted with me, I could tell. Hell, I guess I don't blame him. I'm a pretty gross guy.

I let out a calm breath, resting my palms on my knees for a few minutes before finally forcing myself to up. I wander out of the room, across the hallway and into the bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror. I'm not a bad looking guy... I'm a bit thin, but I have a nice face and a nice ass. So, why didn't he want me?

Probably the scars. I'm damaged goods. Ha.

I know I had one too many last night too. When I went back in the kitchen to grab another drink, I quickly did a shot of Jager. I felt like it was the only way I could deal with the fact that Eric Cartman caught me being fucked in the ass by some ugly guy. Maybe it was the alcohol- or maybe I was just so desperate to get off again- that made my temporarily forget all my scars. Honestly, I thought he would go for it, scars and all.

Or, maybe it was because of the alcohol I suddenly found him to be really attractive. That is, just physically. In fact, I didn't know who it was when I first opened the door. I saw a guy wearing a white, button-down dress shirt with sleeves rolled up along with black slacks and dress shoes. He was a bit taller than me and had a muscular build; it was obviously that this "stranger" worked out a lot. Although one could tell that he's been distressed, his thick, brown hair was neatly parted on the side and he looked as though he came straight from the office. I think there was something about those big, brown eyes that threw me off because they seemed so familiar but yet so foreign.

"Kahl?" As soon as he said my name I knew.

I suppose he really did look good, though I hate to admit it (even to myself). He looked healthy. It's a strange word to associate with someone who was once so morbidly obese. As a kid, I thought he would have died of health complications by now... but I guess not. Time really does change people. I suppose for people like me, the changes aren't anything to be proud of... but for Eric fucking Cartman it proved to be a good thing.

I let out a shuddery breath and decide to distract myself with the only way I know how -

Sex.

I take a shower, washing thoroughly. Around noon my headache wanes and I decide to call up a guy I know. Naturally, he accepts my invite and says, "Be there soon." Feeling satisfied, I hang up the phone and wait. I don't even know his fucking name. I don't put the names of guys I fuck into my phone. I just make up names for them. This guy is Pornstache.

I'm in my robe again. It's easier this way. No point in getting dressed when I'll just be naked again soon enough. When the doorbell rings, I let the guy in. He's not handsome, but he's better looking

than the guy last night. At least this fucker doesn't have a beer gut.

"Hey, 'sup, fuck-buddy?" he asks with a laugh. I force a tight smile in response before ushering him

inside my dim apartment and dropping to my knees like an obedient dog. "Hn… yeah, fuck…" he grunts, grabbing a fistful of my hair. I know I give good head. Sex is probably one of the few things I'm confident about. It's my greatest talent.

After a few minutes, he tightens his grip and forces me to my feet. Rough hands, but I don't mind. He tears off my robe and shoves me into the nearest wall. I pre-lube for times like this. Not all guys like to take the time to be careful.

I inch my legs apart and arch my back, sticking my ass out and pressing my cheek against the wall. He grabs my hips and my breath hitches as I feel him enter.

"Fuck..." I hiss out, closing my eyes. I can feel his nails digging into my hip bones. It stings, but I

don't mind it. I like the mix of pain and pleasure.

Wet slapping sounds fill the room as he quickens his pace. I start panting and whining like a chick in a fucking porno as he grunts behind me. I can feel his breath at the back of my neck and it gives me goose bumps. He presses himself closer, removing one hand from my hips and reaching for my cock.

"Are you a little slut?" he whispers in my ear.

"_Yes_," I moan.

God, I'm disgusting.

Pornstache gets off and, just when I think he's going to pull out and start cuddling, he grabs my hair again, slams me up against the wall, and starts pounding me once more. That's one reason I like him; he can get off more than once and I let him. I didn't make him use a condom this time but that's okay. I really don't care at this point.

When he gets off the third time he starts kissing my neck and wraps his arms around my waist.

"Mmm, I wish we could cuddle but I gotta get some work done," I say sweetly.

Pornstache mumbles something and kisses me quickly on the lips before he gathers his clothes and goes to the bathroom to clean up. It doesn't take him long to clean up and get his shit together before I see him to the door. Once he leaves, I walk into the kitchen and pour myself a glass a water. I drink it incredibly fast, as I am always parched after sex. Then I fill it up again. This time I drink the water slower and I think about everything that's happened in the last 12 hours. Sex with some ugly butterface, getting interrupted by Eric Cartman and then trying to have sex with HIM (only to get rejected), and then first thing this morning sex with Pornstache. I finish that glass of water and then I fill it up a third time. This time, I feel something sick in my stomach. I feel a strange sort of anxiety out of disgust and resentment and I know I'm beginning to panic. When I finish with this glass, I hold it for a second, standing there in my kitchen and not knowing what to do with all these thoughts of disgust and panic flooding into my head.

Holding the large glass, I smash it as hard and as fast as I can into the floor. I watch as the shards seem to fly everything and the sound of glass breaking sounds tragic yet beautiful at the same time. Not thinking, I kneel down and I pick up the largest shard I see close to me and I grip it hard in my right hand, which causes my right hard to bleed some. Paying no heed, I place the shard on my left fore-arm and do what feels right.

I press the piece of glass against the skin on my forearm and slide it across, immediately drawing blood. It feels good. Like an orgasm.

I do it again and again and then i raise my wrist, letting the blood swim down the length of my arm. I'm making a mess, but I can clean it up later. I smile to myself, feeling physically satisfied.

"Mm..." I moan.

Drip, drip, drip.

As much as I like blood, I've never been a fan of slasher movies. It's not the same when it's not my own blood.

I don't really have many hobbies. All I do is work, drink and fuck. I guess drinking and fucking are my hobbies, though "Nice Guys" like Eric fucking Cartman would probably look down on me for it. Ha, nice guys. There's no such fucking thing.

You know, I've tried dating "nice guys" before. I would ask mutual friends friend. "Oh yeah," they said,

"he's a good guy. You should go for it!" So, of course, I took their advice and got into a serious

relationship with said_ nice guy_. The last one even lasted a year. Things were great and I have to say that the last one treated me the best.

That is, until one day we got into a fight and he decided to end it because we were "too different" and he "could never understand" me. Now, I didn't know you had to understand someone to love them, but in this case...

Honestly, I think it was just the cutting that he never understood.

I wasn't trying to scare him. I was just trying to be open and honest about myself. But now I've learned that honesty will always bite you in the ass in relationships. That's why I'd prefer to stay honest and just fuck. No games and not a whole lot of dialogue. It's more simple that way.

If Cartman really IS the nice guy that he presented himself to be last night, I am positive that he would react exact like the last one if we were to actually talk about my cutting. Sure, he would freak out and act a bit disgusted and confused, but he would ACT as though he accepts me anyways. All men do. They'll say whatever they want to get what they want. Sometimes, they actually mean it in that very moment. But it usually changes the next day. That's the thing about relationships. Why do people put so much work, time and effort in something that is supposed to last and be consistent when everything changes?

People get angry when they don't understand things. Men get upset when they can't help you out and be the knight in shining armor, but I never fucking asked for a knight in shining armor.

"Come to me the next time you feel the urge to hurt yourself," he would say, but I never could and he

would get angry. He didn't understand that this wasn't about him. He didn't understand that this wasn't about dying and it definitely wasn't about being saved. I'm not here trying to kill myself. I'm here trying to fucking breathe.

Inevitably, things grew tense. The days leading towards the breakup were quiet and uncomfortable. I knew it was coming, yet I still let it drag on until he was ready to get the words out. I don't know why.

Love always gets thrown in your fucking face, but perhaps, underneath it all, it's something I continue to search for.

When the blood seems to finally be clotting, I get up, go to the bathroom and bandage myself up, as usual. I sit on the cover of the toilet as I contemplate what I should do for the rest of my fucked-up day. I grab my cellphone out of my pocket to look at the time.

11:41.

FUCK!

I really should clean the kitchen and get rid of all that glass, but I know I have to clock in sometime for work. Or, maybe I'll just use some of my paid vacation time and call it a day. Ideally, I wanted to use my PTO for an actual vacation, but what for? Am I going to go to France or Australia by myself? There was a time when I wanted to see all of the world, but what's the point when I'm alone? Who am I going to share my excitement and amusement with?

Paid vacation time it is. Exhausted, I walk into my bedroom and fall face-down on my bed.

There are a great many things I should be doing, but I won't be doing any of it any time soon.

Get dressed. Eat. Maybe go grocery shopping. Plus, I want to stop at the liquor store. I'm running low on the good shit.

I roll over on my mattress and cautiously stretch my limbs, trying not to break any fresh scabs. I raise my arm again and look at my most recent wound before bringing it towards my mouth and pressing it to my lips. The skin feels uneven and rough. I close my eyes before letting my hand fall by my head.

It still stings, but in a good way.

When I open my eyes I stare at all the swirls and patterns in the ceiling, letting myself space out. I feel groggy. The only time I don't feel groggy is when I'm having sex, but the feeling comes back as soon as I blow my load.

It's fucked. I'm fucked.

Sometimes I wish my parents would come check on me just to make sure I'm at least still alive, but they never do. Sometimes I wonder if they even care at all. I know they're busy with Ike, but they do have another son. They have me and when the apathy subsides, I get so fucking sick of being left behind.

I remember when Ike was sixteen and first started getting into some heavy shit. My parents insisted on sending him to a faith-based rehab center (and by faith-based I really mean Judaism-based) in some shitty town outside Dallas, Texas. Of course, they didn't trust him enough to send him by himself, so my dad went and stayed in a hotel nearby so that he could check on him everyday. Meanwhile, my mom and I stayed in South Park. I remember how worried sick my mom was. In fact, that was all she talked about for the two months that they were gone. "I heard Ike is doing well," or "They're switching up Ike's medication," or "Ike seems to be making a lot of friends there at the rehab center in Texas." When he came back, he was so doped up on medication (he was on at least 12 different medications) that all his words were slurred and he just wanted to sleep all of the time.

"I just don't know, Gerald. Is he SUPPOSED to be speaking like that?" she asked one night, after Ike went to sleep at 7:30 p.m.

"I promise that the doctors there told me that this is normal, Sheila!"

"But all he wants to do is sleep all the time! How could he have learned anything out in Texas if he was barely conscious?!"

Giving in, my parents finally took my brother to see a local psychiatrist who was appalled by how many meds Ike was recently prescribed. She took him off all of them except three. Mothers know best, I suppose.

Somehow, I knew that after a few days of Ike speaking clearly and acting more "normal", it wasn't going to last. I knew that deep down, he preferred to be doped up.

And that was when he got into pain killers.

It was just a matter of time until all the bills came pouring in from different walk-in clinics. Ike drove all around the metro-Denver area to go doctor-shopping: Strasburg, Aurora, Brighton, Boulder, Fort Collins... And then some. Apparently he always had a back problem. Or arthritis , or tooth pain, or a torn ligament. It wasn't long before my little brother accrued a dept of well over $10,000.

It's scary how easily something like that can happen. It's scary how easily someone can slip and slip and slip until there's hardly anything left of them. That's what happened to Ike. He slipped and he fell pretty fucking far. Maybe that's what's happening to me, too. Honestly, I can't find it in me to care. I wish I could have taken on all of Ike's pain. It's not fair for him to have had to go through so much shit. He's too young to know so much about how shitty the world is. It's not fair. Then again, nothing is.

I've never really been able to protect him. I haven't played the part of the older brother in a long time. Sometimes I miss it, but I don't know how I'd react if I did see Ike. I'd probably just get fucking depressed.

The world sucks and then you die. I guess Ike tried cutting things short and speeding up the process. Sometimes I don't really blame him for it. I don't think it's a selfish action. People who say it is just don't understand that sometimes life gets truly unbearable. Though I understand it, I'd never kill myself. I don't have it in me. I don't have that kind of macabre strength. So, instead, I cut myself up. I guess that's as close as I'll ever get to death, but that's not why I do it.

That's where me and Ike are different. I hurt myself in order to keep myself alive, whereas he hurts himself to try to bring himself closer to death. He has threatened suicide so many times that I've lost count. Honestly, I would've never taken his threats seriously if I didn't walk in on my brother trying to shoot himself that one time. Not that I've told anyone, but I remember one night having a dream where I walked in AS he pulled the trigger. I felt my heart drop into my stomach in my dream, already mentally beating myself up for not getting to his room sooner. Then I felt a wave of relief as I woke up, albeit in tears. What happened that day was traumatizing but I am so glad I walked in there when I did. I had to act strong and collected, as if I could keep a level, clear head under a tragic emergency.

Truth is, growing up Ike and I used to tell each other everything. But as he got into his drugs and as I got into my cutting, we drifted apart. I used to love him so much and, while I still do, it's strange that I have developed a bit of a resentment towards him. Ike used to be sweet and he used to care about his friends and family. Not anymore. He is, without a doubt, the MOST self-centered human being that ever walked this planet. He is like the way Cartman used to be but much worse.

Cartman...

I still can't believe how fucking stupid I acted last night. Especially now that he's my neighbor. I wish so bad that I could go back and re-do last night. I would've lied about everything. I would've lied about my promiscuity. I would've said that I love my job and I find it very challenging. I wouldn't have disrobed and he wouldn't have seen my scars. And if he did somehow see my scars, I would've made some bullshit up. I wouldn't have gotten do goddamn drunk and I wouldn't have started to cry, for fuck's suck.

I am fucking disgusted with myself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Eric's POV**

I watched them put my mother in the dirt. The funeral was small. Just like I assumed, she didn't have very many people in her life. She kept a circle of close knit friends and family, but they are small in numbers. I got many sympathetic stares and apologies. I just nodded along at every queue. That's what you're supposed to do, right?

Why the fuck do people apologize when someone croaks? It's not like they fucking did it... but I guess it's the only thing a person can offer at a time like this: Pity. I hate pity.

Now it's all over and all I can think about is the fucking stupid Jew. It shouldn't be like that. I should only be thinking about my mother, but Kyle is pushing his way into my head again. I feel like I'm not only mourning the loss of her, but the loss of Kyle as well. He's really far gone. I still have no idea how or why it happened.

I shake the thoughts away for now. I stop for coffee on my way home. I see that tweaker dipshit in front of the cash register, but he doesn't seem to recognize me. All for the best, I suppose. I order myself something with caffeine and then gett back into my car.

I'm not a fan of coffee. I think it tastes like shit. I don't know why I'm fucking drinking it. I guess I'm just fucking tired, but I can't afford to take a nap. I'm a busy man and I have shit to do. So, for now I'll have to tolerate it. It's keeping me awake, after all.

Feeling a tiny bit rejuvenated due to the coffee, I can't help but remember that I have next-to-no groceries in the fridge. I guess the most logical thing to do after a funeral is go grocery shopping, right? Not to mention that I'm wearing one of my nicest suits. But fuck it. Why should I care? Why should I ever care? It's not like anyone's dumbass opinion means anything in this lame little city anyway.

After throwing all my usuals in the buggy (fruits, vegetables, lactose-free milk, cereal, raw fish to cook later), I remember one last thing. I push my buggy to the chips and drinks isle so that I can get a large bag of Cheesy Poofs. Even though I do work out everyday and work with a nutritionist to better my diet, I still have my one weakness. And nothing ever is going to change that.

As I grab my bag of Cheesy Poofs, I see someone I know looking at all the six packs in the isle across from me.

"Kahl?"

Yeah. It's the fuckin' Jew. He's wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants tucked into some heavy duty winter boots. His brown parka is unzipped and he's wearing sunglasses. I assume he's either hung over or has light sensitivity since he seems to do nothing but sit in a dark apartment all day.

When I say his name, he turns to me and sighs. "Oh," is all he says.

"Oh?" I repeat, somewhat annoyed at the lack of response.

"Hi, Cartman," he adds wearily. He breaks eye contact and continues to rake his gaze across the beer before grabbing the one he wants. He looks contemplative and a split second later he grabs another.

"Christ," I mutter. "Gonna drink all that yourself?"

He glances at me once more. "Wanna share?" he simpers, giving me a sickly sweet smile and I can't help but grimace at him. "What's that look for?" he snorts, taking in my reaction with a look of mild humor. I guess everything is a big joke to him. I guess that's how he stays sane.

"You feeling okay?" I ask. I can't get past his comical appearance.

"I guess," he says, shrugging. Then he cracks a smile. Which, despite his disheveled look, is kind of attractive and it stands out with his sunglasses on. "It's so nice of you to care, though!" he retorts. A part of me thinks he's being genuine and another part of me thinks he's being facetious. I guess I'll never know.

"Yeah, yeah." I dismiss. "What are you doing after stocking up on your booze, Jew?" I ask, remembering that it is Saturday.

The redhead shrugs, still carrying two six packs, one in each hand. "Don't know. Why, you need to speak to me about something? I HAVE kept it down since you last saw me, right?"

I roll my eyes, not wanting to think about his seedy sex life. "No, Jew. Just wondering what you're up to."

He looks me up and down, with his eyebrows furrowed together, thinking. "Ohhh shit!" he says, as his eyebrows lift up in exclamation. "Was today the funeral?!"

I nod slowly. "Yeah."

"Dammit, Fatass! Why didn't you tell me?! I would've gone!" he says and his tone sounds genuine.

I shrug. "Wanted to get it over with. It's no big deal," I say, even though I know that I'm just trying to act macho and not show any vulnerability. Before Kyle can protest again, I ask, "So, is that all you're buying?"

"You and your questions!" he says, smiling again. "...Yeah, it is."

"Why don't we pay for our shit and go to Tweek Bros?" I suggest. "Looks like you could use some fucking coffee."

So, he accepts and we pay for our groceries. Well, I pay for mine. All Kyle buys is his liquor.

"Did you drive here?" I ask him.

"I don't have a car," he admits. "I walked."

"Can you even drive?" I snort.

He just shrugs and mumbles something indiscriminate. I take that as a no. So, we make our way to where I'm parked and put our things in the trunk. He sits in the passenger's seat as I get i the driver's and we pull out of the parking lot.

At Tweek Bros, Kyle finally removes his sunglasses.

Tweek immediately recognizes Kyle and goes on a jittery rant about thinking he died. "I haven't seen you in forever!"

"Yeah," Kyle says, showing an incredibly forced smile. "Nice to see you."

Tweek's eyes linger towards me direction, silently asking Kyle who the hell I am.

"That's Cartman," Kyle adds, jabbing a thumb at me.

Tweek looks surprised. "Oh," he says. "You're n-not... Um, never mind."

Not fat. Ha.

I buy my second cup of coffee and Kyle orders a half-caff. "I got it," I say when he pulls out his wallet.

"Wow, such a gentleman," he says in a cynical mutter.

Once we pay, we watch as Tweek makes our drinks. When he's finished, we thank him and go find seats in the corner of the cafe against the window.

"Thanks, Fatass," Kyle adds as we sit down.

"I'm not fat, Kahl," I point out. "I'm big boned."

He snorts. "Now maybe."

"Whatever Jew," I retort. "I work out at least 5 times a week now," I say, explaining my weight loss.

"Good for you," he says tersely. "Sooo..." He cups his coffee with both hands. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

I shrug. "Nothing. Guess I just wanted to really talk and catch up with you... Sober."

"Look, I know I acted stupid the other night," he says, lowering his voice. "I was _drunk_. Otherwise, I wouldn't have done have that shit that I did."

"Like get naked in front of me?" I raise a brow.

The Jew's face immediately flushes red and I can see how humiliated he is. "...Yeah," he mutters.

I stretch and drape my left arm over the back of my chair as I cross my right leg over my left, where my ankle is resting on my knee. "I don't know, Kahl..." I start, "they say that people's real feelings come out when they're drunk. Sure you haven't always had the hots for me?" I smile my best eat-shit grin.

"Fuck no!" he yells. He looks around and lowers his voice. "I mean, no. I was drunk and I tend to act out when I'm drunk."

"Whaddya mean, 'act out'?"

"Just... Just that I did that night,"

"Like sex with ugly dudes?"

Kyle hangs his head. "That's... s-some of it, yeah."

I adjust my posture and prop one elbow on the table, with my fist under my chin. "So, were you exaggerating?"

He raises a brow. "Exaggerating?"

"About all the crazy, wild sex that you have, and how often you have it?"

"Ohh," he breathes abruptly. "No, I wasn't..." He tucks his head, ashamed. "But..." He tries to explain and trails off.

"Hm?"

"But I shouldn't have told you all that," he says, still cupping his coffee.

"Well, you did," I retort with a shrug. "You can't take that back."

"I know," he murmurs.

"You also can't un-suck a dick," I add, "so... you should be more careful from now on. This is a small

town full of hicks. You might pick up some weird STI."

"Wouldn't be the first time," he mutters before wincing. He looks like he's mentally berating himself for letting out yet another confession.

I recoil at that, grimacing. "Fucking joke?"

"No joke," he says before sighing. "I guess I shouldn't have said that either."

"What did you have?" I pry.

"Uh, just a couple bacterial ones," he mumbles.

Disgusting. He's had more than one. "You're lucky," I tell him. "That shit can be cured. If it was like... fuckin' herpes or something you would have that shit 'til you die."

"I know," is all he says. He sounds detached, like he's trying to distance himself from the memory or maybe he's just trying to distance himself from the conversation he's having with me.

"Safe sex from now on, yeah?" I suggest, but he just shrugs his shoulders and I can't fucking understand why the hell he won't take care of himself. It makes no sense to me at all. He's still looking down at his coffee and it's starting to frustrate me. "Come on," I urge. "Look at me." He does so, resting an elbow on the table and putting his chin in his palm. "You deserve better," I say. "We often accept what we think we deserve. Why do you think you deserve all that shit?"

He only rolls his eyes at me. Clearly he wants to change the subject. "What are you trying to get at here, Cartman?" he asks, staring me point blank. "Look, it scared the fucking shit out of me the two times I got diagnosed with something, but I took what the doctor prescribed and I don't have anything now, okay?" he says. I feel his tone getting heated. "Besides, I do use protection... Most of the time now anyways," he adds defensively.

I scrunch my face. "If you don't know these guys, then 'most of the time' isn't good enough, Kahl!"

For the first time in our conversation, the Jew lets go of his coffee and leans back in his chair with both arms hanging down. He looks at me with a tired, worn-out expression. "And why do you care, Cartman?" he asks, but it sounds more like a statement. "Are you just taking this opportunity to make me feel like shit so you can feel better about yourself? Like when we were younger, Fatass?"

"I don't want to make you feel worse about yourself than you already do, Kahl," I answer and he makes a confused expression. He waves his right hand in a dismissive manner- as if to blow off what I just said- as he leans forward.

"Well, even if you are being genuine, are you trying to be my knight in shining armor? Someone to save me from myself? Because if you are, trust me, you'll get sick of my shit real soon, just like all the others in my past."

I stare at him, seeing his blatant distrust and his jaded outlook on life written all over him. "No Kahl," I start, "it's just that the Jew that I knew 6 or 7 years ago would've never had sex unless he were in a committed, serious relationship,"

Kyle's angry expression softens, and i see the sadness in his eyes as he recalls how he was then, when we had only had sex with only 2 or 3 girls- all of which he dated for a while- and while he still had a tiny ounce of self-respect. I guess the Jew decided to switch teams in the more recent years, which doesn't surprise me.

"Well, I'm sorry about what all you had to see the other night," he says softly. "But to be honest, my sex life really is none of your goddamn business."

I laugh at that. "You made it my business when you got out dick out and then started crying like a fucking baby."

He cringes. "Don't say it like that."

"Why?" I snort. "That's exactly what happened. You're lucky I'm not the kind of guy to take advantage of someone who is drunk and stupid."

"You're such a saint," he simpers cynically.

"No, I'm not," I tell him. "I'm just being a decent fuckin' person. If you're drunk, then it's rape."

He scoffs at that. "You're quite dramatic. It's not like that."

"Yes, it is," I insist. I lean forward and quietly ask, "Now how many times has that happened to you? How many times have you been too drunk to function, forced to let some old hick take what he wanted?"

He smiles, but it's void of emotion. "Like I said, you fat shit, it's none of your motherfucking business what I do with my body or what I let people do to it."

"Right, right," I sigh. "It's yours to use and abuse, huh?"

His jaw tightens. His temper is rising, I can sense it. "I hate you," he bites out.

I give him my most serene smile. "Quite a mature sentiment, Kahl," I say with blatant sarcasm. "You definitely sound like a twenty-six year old man when you talk like that."

"I like sex," he says with finality. "Stop talking down to me for it."

"There's a big difference between liking sex and using it as a form of self-harm," I point out.

His face changes when he hears the words "self-harm". I know that he knows that I just now mentioned his other addiction unintentionally.

"Can we PLEASE talk about something else?" he pleads. "Tell me more about your job."

"Oh," I say, trying to change subjects mentally, but it's hard when I clearly see the anguish and shame on the Jew's face and I want to get to the bottom of it. "Well, I still had to work a shitty retail job for the first two years after I graduated because I couldn't find a place that needed a bilingual speaker," I explain. "But I knew I was eventually going to get hired. With the way our country is going, linguists are becoming more and more and demand. So, eventually I was contacted by a German-based computer company, and they let me talk to our headquarters a lot and act like a liaison between us and them."

"That's really neat," the Jew says as I see his eyes peak with interest. He can try to cover it up with his new, dark lifestyle, but Kyle has- and always will be- a fucking nerd.

"Yeah, it's been pretty kick-ass," I chuckle.

"Have you gone to Germany yet?" he asks.

"Yep. Last year the company sent me for a month for training on some new admin work. Also, they thought it would be good if I got to finally meet the people I've been talking to for so long," I smile.

"It was pretty fucking awesome, Kahl!"

I see a soft smile spread on the redhead's face. "Wow. That's really cool Cartman," He takes a sip of his coffee. "To be honest I haven't been outside of the country yet. Growing up, my parents always wanted to take a vacation to Israel, but I know that's not going to happen now..."

I raise an eyebrow. "Why not?" The Jew shrugs in response and takes another sip of his coffee. "How are your parents, by the way?"

"They're good," he responds quickly.

"And Ike, how is he? Isn't he in college now?" I laugh at how absurd that sounds. "Christ, I feel so fucking old!"

I feel a strange awkward silence when the Jew doesn't respond. "He's fine," he finally responds harshly.

I can easily sense that he's lying. "Chill," I tell him, somewhat annoyed at the sudden anger. He's up and down a lot.

Kyle lets out a breath. "I don't want to talk about him." There is a mix of emotions evident in his tone and I don't know what to do with any of them.

"Ike?" I pry.

Kyle closes his eyes. "Don't say his name."

I raise an eyebrow at that. "Why the hell not?"

"Because I said so," is all he replies with.

"Not gonna cut it," I tell him. "Try again."

"No," he says.

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No!" he snaps loudly, drawing the attention of some nearby strangers. "Fucking hell, no!"

A pause. "Kahl, what happened?" I ask.

Kyle simply shakes his head, like it's something he can't bear to even think about. Clearly it's a sensitive subject. I don't understand why. "There's just a lot of stuff I don't want to go into about Ike," he says. "Stuff that, when me and you went to school together, my parents swore me into secrecy and made me promise that I would never tell any of my friends,"

"So whatever it is with Ike, it's been going on for a while?" I ask softly.

The Jew nods, staring blankly at the table. "Yes," he almost whispers.

I wrack my mind trying to think about when was the last time I saw Kyle's little brother. Christ, I can't remember! Maybe when we were still in high school and Ike was in junior high? But, if I remember clearly, that was when he started acting weird. I remember one night inviting the usual crew- me, Kenny, Butters, Stan, and Kyle- to go see this new Terrance and Phillip movie. Just like old times, when I invited Kyle, I told him that Ike was more than welcome to come. Fuck, growing up, sometimes I wish that I could've hung out with Ike as opposed to his ginger brother. He was a lot more laid-back and less self-righteous than Kyle was back then. But, Kyle was always in my classes back then, and Stan and Kenny insisted on him being part of our group. Besides, hanging out with Ike without Kyle would've just felt weird, I guess.

But what I do remember about that day was when Kyle came to the theater sans Ike.

"Where's Ike?" I whispered loudly in the theater, right before I put more popcorn in my mouth.

"He didn't want to come," he whispered back.

"What?!" I asked, confused.

"SHHH!" Stan rudely interrupted me. "We're in a theater you guys!"

"Why?" I whispered more quietly.

"I don't know," Kyle answers. And that was that.

At that time I dismissed it, remembering that Ike was going through puberty so he was probably just too cool to hang out with his brother and his friends. But now I'm wondering if it was something more serious.

"Kahl," I start. "We're not in our early 20's anymore, and you no longer live with your parents," I explain. "If you told me what is going on with Ike, I swear on my mother's grave it would stay between you and me," I promise.

Suddenly, Kyle slumps forward with his forehead in his hands. He lets out a string of deep, heaving breaths. When I think he's about to have a panic attack or some kind of fit, he sits up straight. His eyes are glazed over and he looks like he's about to lose his fucking mind. It's unsettling to see. He lets out another breath, quieter this time, and then he slumps forward again. Wringing his hands through his hair, he starts to shake his head.

I simply stare. There's a knot in my gut, something telling me that whatever secret Kyle was forced to keep... It's something really fucking bad. Did Ike kill someone?

"Kahl..." I say slowly.

"Shut up," he whispers sharply. He sits up and leans back against his seat. He looks contemplative, like he wants to tell me but he's unsure if he should. He also looks like he's in fucking agony. "I can't say it," he murmurs mechanically after a few more minutes pass. "I've never said it. I don't think I'm able to."

I stare at him piteously. "Maybe I could help?" I offer.

He laughs at that and it's the most bitter sound I've ever heard. "You can't," he says surely. "No one can. He's had countless doctors throughout the years and nothing has helped."

I move my coffee more to the right so that I can face Kyle straight. "What is it about Ike that you are supposed to keep a secret?" I ask gingerly.

"He's... He's a mess," he says, looking at me straight. "Ike has been struggling with drugs for a long, long time. He's supposed to be clean now, but I don't know if I believe that,"

"I'm really sorry to hear that, Kyle," I pronounce his name correctly out of his respect. I know my mom struggled with drugs on and off too, and it scared the shit out of me. Growing up I cried myself to sleep at night, knowing that I had to go to school the next day and I wouldn't be there to protect her. It was the most amazing feeling of relief when she went into NA and decided to not only get clean but STAY clean. I'm so happy that- although her death was tragic- at least she died with dignity, being 5 years clean and sober.

Kyle shrugged. "It's whatever," he says, playing with my straw wrapper. "But to answer your question, my little brother really isn't up to anything. He never went to college. He sleeps most of the day and watches TV at night. Sometimes he'll get a job but he'll only be able to keep it for a couple of months, if that. Actually, he stole from his last job." And with that the Jew chuckles in a cynical manner. Then he shakes his head and sighs. "My point is, he's really, really fucked up, Cartman."

"All right," is all I respond with. "Fair enough."

For now, I decide to leave it. I can tell Kyle isn't going to relent so easy and tell me what's really going on. I guess it's not really my business, but I'm a pretty fucking nosy guy. I like to know everything about everyone. I've always been that way, ever since I was a kid. The only thing that has changed is what I do with the information I learn about people. These days, blackmail isn't at the forefront of my mind.

Kyle looks visibly relieved when I relent and he doesn't hesitate to change the subject quickly. "So, do you have any hobbies?"

I eye him critically and he seems to sense it, so he glances away. "Well," I start, "I don't have much time for hobbies these days. I mostly let my work fill up my schedule since I enjoy it."

"That's good," he says, staring down into his cup some more.

"Anything interesting in there?" I ask him with a smile.

He sneers at me. "Shut up," he mutters.

"What about you?" I ask as I cross my legs again.

"What about me?"

I clear my throat. "Your hobbies, I mean."

He slowly raises an eyebrow, as if the words somehow turned foreign. "Hobbies...?"

"Yah know, what you do for fun, Jew."

"Oh," he says, as if registering the thought. "I mean, besides sex? I like trying new beers, I guess..."

I roll my eyes. "No, Jew. What do you like to do that doesn't involve sex or alcohol?"

Kyle stays silence, thinking for what feels like a very long fucking minute. "Ummm," he starts. "Well, I do like to watch movies sometimes,"

I blink, in almost disbelief. "Kahl."

"Yes?"

"What the FUCK do you do for fun?" I ask, kinda pissed off.

"I just TOLD you, Fatass!"

"Ay! I'm not fat anymore, Jew!"

"S-sorry," he says, "it's just out of habit, I guess."

I roll my eyes again and urge him, "So...?"

He shrugs and wrinkles his nose. "I don't have any, I guess. I don't do much. I just work and drink and fuck."

"And cut yourself up," I add in a mutter.

He frowns at that. "Shut up," he whispers.

I tilt my head to the side and continue to stare at him. I'll never fuckin' understand why someone would go and do a thing like that. Your body gives you life and all that gay shit. It works to keep you moving and breathing. It works fuckin' hard. Is that how Kyle repays his body? I don't fuckin' get it.

"Stop staring at me like that," he mumbles, glancing away. Clearly he has a hard time maintaining eye contact with people.

"You need to have fun, Kahl."

The Jew blinks. "Excuse me?"

I clear my throat. "You heard me. You need to have some goddamn fun, Kahl!"

My redheaded "friend" gives me a look as though I have lost my goddamn mind.

"Let's go do something, Jew." I say, kinda surprised that I just announced that myself.

"What do you have in mind, Cartman?"

I shrug, irritated. "I don't know. Let's go fucking ice skating!"

He laughs at my suggestion. "You SURE you aren't gay, Cartman?"

I scoff. Of course, I know I'm bi, but I'm not anywhere near ready to tell anyone else that yet. But honestly, I just want to distract the Jew. If he's with me, then at least he's not fucking of hurting himself.

"Yes Jew, I'm sure," I answer reassuringly. "So are we going fucking ice skating or not?"

He gives me a weary smile and sighs. "Sure, let's go fuckin' ice skating."

.

.

After finishing our drinks we get back into my car, making our way to the rink. I'd say let's go to the pond, but neither of us have ice skates. The drive isn't long, since most things in South Park are close together.

Inside, I rent us both a pair of skates and we enter the rink. I watch as Kyle slips out of his boots and puts on the pair of skates, tucking his pajama pants into them. He looks pretty fuckin' silly, but I won't say it out loud.

"I haven't been skating since I was ten," he confesses when we're both ready.

"Shit, for real?" I snort.

"For real," he says. He huddles against the wall, grabbing onto the rail. "Why, do you ice skate often?" he asks, with a bit of sarcasm in his tone.

"Did it in college, and one time after that," I answer, staying on Kyle's left side while I patently skate slow.

"Really?" he asks. "So, it's a hobby of yours?"

I shrug. "Not really. The one time in college was when me and some buddies were drunk. And the time after college..." I trail off, suddenly feeling awkward. "I was on a date," I finish, trying to sound nonchalant.

The Jew raises an eyebrow. "A date?"

I throw a glare of sarcasm his way. "Yes, Kike, a date."

The redhead is still holding on to the rail and inching his way along the ice, but his gaze doesn't move from my face. In fact, I can see from my peripheral view that he looks almost amused.

"Whose idea was it? Yours or the girl's?" he chuckles. "It HAD to be the girl's. There's no way someone as self-centered and thoughtless as you came up with that,"

"Actually, it WAS my idea, you dirty Jew!" I give him my best "eat-shit" look.

He glances from the rail- making sure he's holing on still- and looks back at me, eyes widening. "No way!" He stops. "Eric Cartman being a gentleman?!" His chuckles get louder and turn into laughter.

"Why's that so fucking hard to believe, KAHL?!" I spit his name as I feel my face turn red from embarrassment. I decide to not wait on his lame ass and start picking up my speed, skating to get away from the Jew.

I can hear him behind me, still laughing. It makes me want to slap him, but I won't.

"Okay, sorry, sorry," he apologizes, sounding like he's still stifling snickers. He hobbles alongside me and we're quiet again.

"I can be a gentleman," I say out of the blue.

"Hm," he muses, sounding like he's only partially convinced. "I suppose."

"I was a gentleman the other night when you were begging for my dick," I point out. "I chose NOT to take advantage of your drunken desperation."

He sneers at that and I can't help but smirk. It's my turn to have a laugh. "Just stop bringing it up," he mutters.

I ignore him and it's silent again.

To be honest, I like skating (gay as that makes me). I like the feeling of cold air in my face. I guess it always reminds me of being home, even when I am far away. Skating was a daily thing when we were kids. When we all grew up and grew away, it stopped being something we did. Other things got in the way.

But for now, it's nice to just be in the moment and do something stupid and fun for no reason.

...It's been awhile since I've actually been in the moment.

"Hey, hey! Look Cartman!"

I turn my head to see the Jew is now skating (and by skating I mean taking baby-steps) on his own, not holding onto the rail anymore.

"Look at you! You're a real man now, Kahl!" I say smiling.

"Fuck you," he retorts, but he doesn't stay anger for long as he is too busy balancing himself. He stares down at his feet and has both of his arms out stretched on either side, as if keeping his arms stretched out will prevent him from falling. I can't help but laugh.

"You look so fucking stupid right now, Kike." I laugh again.

"I said, fuck off!" The redhead tries to look angry, but he's suppressing laughter himself since he knows he looks ridiculous. It's actually kinda endearing.

"Shall we try to skate around the rink, Kahl?" I ask, pushing him a little. "The bird has to leave the nest sometime."

He lets out a long, whiny moan and his eyebrows draw together as though he's unsure. "I'm going to fall on my ass."

"I'll be right next to you," I remind him, moving out into the rink.

He awkwardly hobbles and half-skates towards me. He's shaky.

"I can't believe you never learned to fucking skate," I say.

"Sh," he hushes me, concentrating on his movements. He bites his lower lip and soon enough, he's at my side.

"Yah did it," I applaud in a somewhat patronizing matter. He wrinkles his nose at me and promptly falls backwards with a shriek. I point and laugh. "That was awesome!"

"Asshole!" he snaps from the ground. "You're supposed to catch me!"

"Oh, so NOW you want me to be your knight in shining armor!" I retort.

The Jew just raises an eyebrow, as if I'm speaking some foreign language.

"You said that to me earlier today, remember Kahl?" I ask.

"Look, can you just help me to fucking skate?" he asks, raising his right hand up, expecting me to help get him back to his feet.

Without thinking about it I take his hand with my right hand, use my left hand to get a better grip of his arm, and firmly plant my skates in the ground so that I can get him up off his ass. During this awkward transition the redhead makes numerous grunting noises in the way that one would think he was lifting weights. Once he's on his feet again, he's breathing much heavier than I am.

"Now, shall we try this again, Jew?" I ask while he pants heavily. It's pretty obvious that he never works out at all.

"S-sure," he says, trying to sound more confident than I know that he's feeling.

Finally, the Jew gets the hang of it after we go around the rink the second time. He's somewhat able to keep up with my speed and he doesn't fall, although he comes close a couple times. One time when he comes close, he goes into that weird, awkward position where he's trying to balance himself with his arms stretched out. I catch the redhead laughing at himself and- for once- not seeming to care that I'm seeing him act silly. It makes me happy and sad at the same time. It makes me smile and happy because the Jew deserves to be happy (and besides, he does have a GREAT smile with perfect teeth), but it makes me sad because something tells me that the Jew rarely laughs these days.

He probably doesn't feel like he has many reasons to laugh and smile. I guess he doesn't. At least, going by what I know it seems like he doesn't. Still, it's nice to see.

Wow, I sound gay.

"What?" he asks, glancing at me.

"Nothing," I insist.

He shrugs it off, not bothering to pry. I can't help but notice all the little things. When we were kids, he would have pried until I relented. He was annoying like that. It's different now. Everything is. I guess age does that to a person, but it's more than that. It's all the shit. I guess it would have been stupid to expect him to have stayed the same forever.

Still, I miss that innocent and pure Kyle that stood for justice. I guess he's long gone now.

"Well Jew, should we call it a night?" I ask, noticing how my legs are starting to feel sore.

"I was thinking the same thing," he says, nodding.

After we exchange our skates for our shoes we ride back to our apartments. We tiredly climb up the stairs together and, at the top of the stairs, we look at each other, knowing that it was time to go our separate ways. For tonight, at least.

"Well Cartman, what we did tonight was sort-of weird," the Jew says, contorting his face into an awkward smirk. "But I had fun. Thanks."

I nod. "You're welcome Kahl," I respond.

Then we hug and, as awkward as it is, I can feel myself exhaling and feeling so relieved at the same time. THIS is what FEELS right.

"'Night Jew."

"Night Fatass."


End file.
